


At Fault

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Prank Wars, Whump, prank gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid and Morgan's prank war heats up, with tragic results.</p><p>Wounds might heal given enough time, but Morgan can't see how their friendship ever will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Relapse

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the previously named The Reid Effect rewritten COMPLETELY and with a chapter two, because I decided we needed some happy comfort/fluff/Reid getting better. 
> 
> Please do not read on if an injury to an animal upsets you. 
> 
> Especially do not read on if an injury to a Reid upsets you.

The case was long, sweltering, and not at all helped by the quiet tension building between Morgan and Reid. Reid, Morgan knew, was sitting there _plotting_. There was no way he wasn’t… no matter how innocent he looked chewing on the end of his pen, shirt-sleeves rolled up against the oppressive heat, smiling distractedly at Emily as she walked past on a quest for more ice to chew on… he was quiet. Too quiet.

Hotch interrupted Morgan’s suspicious inner diatribe. “Morgan, Reid, go check out Weeks’ house—it’s been empty for weeks according to his landlord. See if he left anything behind when he cleared out.” There was a seriously fierce Hotch-frown being levelled at Morgan’s direction as he spoke, his patience wearing thin with the two prank-warring profilers.

It wasn’t Morgan’s fault. _Reid_ was the one who’d escalated. Morgan was just responding to that… it was a matter of honour, after all. As though he could hear Morgan’s suspicions, Reid bolted out the room, his head lowered and eyes hidden by dark shades. Morgan took his time, meandering about slinging his bag over his shoulder and checking his weapon and cell. It was disgustingly hot outside and, unlike Vegas-boy, he wasn’t looking forward to spending the next few hours skulking around in the heat. JJ touched his arm as he walked past, her mouth thin and worried.

“Is he okay?” she asked, tilting her head towards the empty doorway. “He’s… quiet.”

Morgan snorted with false bravado. “He’s just anticipating my next move.”

“Morgan.” Hotch’s voice was a sharp warning, his suit-jacket off and his forehead shiny with sweat.

Oops. Better tone it back. “Yeah, yeah, Hotch. I’ll keep an eye on him. He’s fine, you’ll see.” He followed his friend out the door. Maybe it was time for a truce… no one was a winner in a mid-summer prank-war, anyway.

At least, that was his intention. Reid forestalled it by looking utterly miserable as they drove through the empty streets of a silent township where someone had decided to use the quiet summer days to kill. Morgan tapped at the wheel impatiently, saying nothing. He wasn’t going to distract Reid from his thoughts if he was musing over the case or the profile, not for something as unimportant as a bit of fun. Even if the silence was a little unnerving, coupled with everyone hiding away from the stifling heat of the day and turning the place into an eerie, heat-warped ghost-town. Morgan half wished he could hide away from the heat as well, or at least catch this sonofabitch soon so they could go home. By the look on Reid’s face, he was feeling pretty much the same way.

By the time they reached the house they were both covered in a sheen of sweat, Reid drooping miserably as Morgan swung open the car door. The heat was a physical wall, and even the Vegas born and bred agent recoiled. Morgan chuckled at Reid’s glum expression.

Maybe making amends could begin here. “Want me to check the area, kid?” Reid hesitated, his expression clouding behind the shades before he nodded silently and slumped back into the seat. Morgan was relatively secure in his assumption that the yard and house would be empty—the kid could have a break. And even if it wasn’t empty, Reid was a shout away and his gaze would be fixed on his partner’s whereabouts. Morgan wasn’t cocky enough to say ‘what could go wrong’, but he was just cocky enough that he whistled as he strode up the baking path.

He and let himself in with the key the landlord had supplied, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the closed in rooms soaked in the heat of a Texan summer. The inside of the house was as roasting as outside and as abandoned as expected. _Boring_ , Morgan hummed to himself, peeking out the front window. Reid was a dark shadow in the car, head pressed against the glass.

With just the yard left to check, Morgan exited through the front and travelled along the fence line, keeping half an eye on the SUV containing his partner. Maybe the kid was doing it again, the thing he did where he sunk so far into his own head that he’d get himself all tangled up in his own doubts and misconceptions… that would explain his silent misery. Maybe Morgan _shouldn’t_ give up the war just yet. One more turn at him, just to remind the kid that he could still have fun, even when things were fucking awful. Glancing along the top of the wood-slat fencing into the desolate yard, his interest was piqued by a promising sight. The yard was mostly bare except for a tangle of overgrown hedging at the back and a lawn slightly gone to seed, but there was one other thing the man had left behind.

A sprinkler, laying benignly along the path. Weeks was a keen gardener and the sprinkler was designed to water the entire swathe of lawn alongside the house. It had been kicked up from the lawn by a careless foot, and now crookedly pointed directly to the path. Lying at the perfect angle to douse someone with a startlingly cool shower as they wandered unsuspectingly onto the path. The tap to turn the sprinkler on was on _his_ side of the fence.

It was almost serendipitous.

"Hey, Reid!" he called, trying to hide his grin as he imagined Reid’s face as the sprinkler suddenly drenched him. It was a close call, be he managed to straighten his facial expression to something almost resembling seriousness as Reid popped his head out the passenger window to stare at him, frowning as the heat struck anew.

Really, he was doing Reid a favour, cooling him down in this stinking heat. "Thought I saw something around the back, you wanna take a look, man?" he asked nonchalantly.

Reid nodded, exiting the car silently with a notable air of irritability. For a moment, Morgan felt a twinge of guilt. Kid had been acting off all week, lethargic and glum. It probably wasn’t a good idea to soak him if he was coming down with something… but, of course, if he didn’t do this he’d have to come up with something else otherwise Garcia would never let him forget how the younger agent had gotten the better of him. She kept changing his ringtone to Reid screaming and, after the fourth time, it was starting to haunt his dreams too.

On the other hand, if Reid was sick and Morgan added to that, Prentiss and JJ would probably team up to make mince-meat of his ass. Well-deserved mince-meat.

His hand on the tap, he watched Reid vanish into the backyard, the latch bouncing and clicking shut as the gate swung shut behind him. It didn’t completely cut their view of each other off. Morgan could still see the top of Reid’s head as he glanced around quizzically at the apparently empty yard.

Morgan let his hand drop from the tap. He couldn't do it, not while Reid was this down. He shrugged, shouted, "I guess not, never mind," and turned away, feeling as though he'd almost done some kind of wrong here. Ah well, he’d just salt the guy’s coffee later… or replace all his candy with wax facsimiles. Reid’s footsteps followed behind him, pausing as the latch clicked open. At least they were done here and could head back to the air-conditioned precinct.

He didn’t see the seventy-five-pound retriever stalking them from the shelter of the hedging in the backyard. He didn’t hear the growl or the pad of paws as it lurched forward. Reid did, and paused as he turned to face the threat reflexively. All Morgan heard was a strangled cry.

A crack.

And then silence.

Spinning around with his hand automatically dropping to his hip, Morgan’s mouth twitched into an automatic half-smile at the sight of the gold coat of a familiar breed. He hadn’t even seen the animal in his cursory check of the yard, not sprawled in the golden-brown dirt of the baked earth under the hedges. In the absurdity of the moment, he almost failed to react in time as the dog slammed into Reid and sent them sprawling, jaws closing around his friend’s throat. For a heartbeat, barely a blink of time, Reid flung his arms up and shoved at the dog, keeping it back. But they’d hit the wall. Now, Reid was limp and unresisting under the assault. The ghost of a smile was still on Morgan’s mouth as he fired three rounds into the animal’s chest.

Reid’s lanky frame had fallen awkwardly against the gate, pinning it half open against the house. Morgan didn’t bother fighting with it, instead leaping the fence in one smooth bound. Reid’s sunglasses crunched under Morgan’s boot as he landed and saw how the kid’s head lolled back loosely at a sickening angle that had every one of Morgan’s nerves firing in panic.

His throat was a bloody mass of torn flesh, rapidly darkening his purple shirt to a deep black and matting his hair against his skin. Morgan hesitated only a moment at seeing it before the panic subsided into a clear, distant calm. Their training prevailed. Shoving the dying dog forward so it got the damn gate off of Reid, there was a bizarre twinge of surreal guilt at the animal’s plight, even as he stripped his shirt to staunch the gaping wound it had caused. Everything moved slowly. His pulse bounded in his ears, his body moving jaggedly. But his training kept his hands moving even as his mind buckled.

_Agent down. Requesting a medic. Site clear, requesting urgent medical attention._   

He didn’t think he’d ever forget the green of the grass or the blue sky against the vivid red splashed on the floor, his hands, the coat of the starved dog. Nor would he forget the way Reid’s heart still beat persistently, determined to pump his life out through Morgan’s clenched fingers even as Morgan tried to hold it in; or the feel of his skull shifting under Morgan’s fingers when he reached a hand back to see what damage the wall had caused. In every victim from now on, he’d see the way Reid’s eyes had slipped open, the same colour as the deep black of his blood-soaked shirt. He’d hear the rattling sound he was making with every strained breath.

There were people running towards him, calling something about an ambulance, shouting something else, dragging the dog away. None of it mattered. Not even the snippet of an argument by his head— _rabid?_ —all that mattered was holding him here. Chanting his friend’s name as his hands grew sticky and the pulse under his palms slowed. Faltered. His eyes didn’t close, but they stopped. Somehow. Stopped being eyes and turned blank. Bright blood on pale skin. Waiting for the sirens but unable to hear them over the echoing nightmare of snarls and that sudden crack.

He closed his eyes and prayed. Not like this. _Not like this._


	2. Recovery

He drifted awake once. He was floating, light, words hovering around him like physical presences. If he could reach up, make his arms work, he could pluck them out of the air and examine them to his heart’s content. He loved words.

Some of them were italics, juxtaposed with harsh monospace fonts made scratchy by worry.

 

“… came outta nowhere, Hotch…”

“I’m supposed to have his back. Look at him, Prentiss! I fucked up!”

“Since when has Reid ever given up? Get over yourself, Derek. Stop underestimating him.”

They went away. Replaced with serif. Dull. This was why he preferred to hand-write all his notes, type just lacked the personal touch.

 

“Lucky to be alive. If your agent didn’t react as quickly as he did…”

“Possibility of brain trauma. It’s just too early to tell, really. The fracture was quite severe.”

 

He couldn’t place the ones in colour, but he knew he loved them. They floated very slightly out of reach, almost untouchable. Sometimes they were distorted by the harsh shriek of machines, jagged lines that cut through his head and left trails of burning synapses misfiring into starbursts of pain.

 

“Please wake up, baby. You’ve got ~~everyone so worried.”~~

~~“…Henry…”~~

~~“I l~~ ove ~~you Spence.”~~ ~~~~

__

A deeper voice, the words bold and in a fierce size. Demanding attention.

 

**~~“You don’t have permission to die, Reid. Stop trying.”~~**

~~~~

Hotch.

Reid had always been a fan of Courier It reminded him of his mother’s books. He responded in it, of course.

 

I can hear you. I’m still here.

 

Reid wasn’t exactly the type to ignore a direct order. Things got easier after that.

 

He woke up once and he was alone and his head was impossible to keep steady on a wobbly neck. Closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, and the dim room vanished.

 

“…registering activity on the… lucky… give it time…”

He’s thirsty. His throat hurts. There’s something in it. He tries to breathe and everything fights him.

“… owah, eyh?...”

What?

He hadn’t even realized he’d opened his eyes until the lights burned them and he flinched away, feeling the pillow dampening under his cheek. The lights vanished, replaced by gloom.

“… eiRd?”

He tumbled back, so close.

Damn.

 

Colours weren’t quite right yet. He turned his head and saw a slashing yellow, bowed. He tapped his hand on the bed and the yellow lifted, became a piercing blue that saw right through him. A smile, the shape of it wobbling. A sad smile. Watering blue.

He blinked a few times because he’s obviously out of his mind, but even he can register that seeing people as a collection of colours isn’t quite right. Everything is a bizarre mix of past and present, tenses broken, shapes. At least he’s not thirsty anymore. And whatever was in his throat was gone. He blinked again. The shapes sharpened, folded into a being. JJ. _Hello._ Crying? She opened her mouth and he doesn’t want her to talk because he had the vaguest memory of words taunting him.

“Hi, Spence,” she said, and he smiled. Then closed his eyes again, because the effort of keeping them open was exhausting.

It got easier.

 

* * *

 

“Seven down, ‘surreptitious’.”

“I always liked that word.” Emily sloppily scrawled the word in the boxes. He examined her handwriting. For some reason, he appreciated the personal touch of it. “It was the first six syllable word I learnt as a kid. I used it for everything.”

“Correctly? That’s impressive.” He coughed, throat still scratchy under the thick bandages.

“No. But everyone was so impressed that I knew it that they let me get away with it.”

“Cute.” Reid and Emily both turned their heads to the doorway to find Hotch standing there with his eyebrows drawn together in what was probably concern, a bobbing pink balloon tied to one wrist. “From Jack.”

Reid stared at the balloon as Hotch hooked it on the end of the bed. It stared back. “Err… thanks. What is it?”

“It’s Patrick Starr,” Emily said, leaning over and poking it with her pen. The ink left a line across its mouth, making it look lopsided. “He’s a starfish. You know, SpongeBob?”

Reid hummed noncommittedly, sensing it was one of those pop-culture references that she was going to judge him for not knowing, but Hotch came to his rescue. “How are you feeling?” One of those questions that usually required what Garcia liked to call, ‘sugar lies’.

Reid respected his boss too much to lie, even with sugar. “My head feels like someone shoved an egg beater in it and tried to make a soufflé out of my brain, my eyes have trouble focusing for long periods, and they’re still not sure if the concussion caused permanent damage. I mean, it’s kind of hard to tell—even if I dropped ten IQ points out there, who’s to know? If I’m a little slower, a little duller… certainly not me.” Reid closed his eyes, recognising his wandering mouth and cursing inwardly.

He hadn’t meant to say any of those things.

When he opened them, Hotch and Prentiss were still there and neither were pitying him. “Well, you’ll just have to struggle through with being only eight times smarter than the rest of us,” Emily teased unsympathetically, tapping his hand with the pen. Patrick bobbed around, showing the unmarked side of his smiling mouth.

“I think you’re fine,” Hotch said, his dark eyes piercing. “Have you talked to Morgan?”

_Way to cut right to the heart of things, Hotch._

“I made a joke about all the girls I can get with my…”—he gestured to his neck— “… wicked scarring, and he made an excuse and left. How can I talk to him if he won’t let me? I’m kinda stuck here.” Trapped in this room with the scent of the piles of flowers and cards and stuffed animals, and one wonky cactus that he was pretty sure Anderson sent. He appreciated the thought. It reminded him of the desert. Not to mention, his new roommate, Patrick the wonky Starfish.

Prentiss held out the magazine, cutting easily through the tension. “Sixteen across, go.”

That earned them both a _hmm_ from Hotch. “Using Reid is cheating.”

“Not if he’s brain-damaged.” Prentiss winked as she said it. Oddly, he grinned. At least she wasn’t treating him like he was fragile. “IQ of 177? He’s practically average. This is just phoning a friend.”

He glanced at the crossword to hide his blush. “Sebaceous.” Hotch smiled. And that was when Morgan walked in.

Just like that, the tension was back.

“Prentiss, leave the room with me,” Hotch ordered. Reid gaped at them as they left without a word, Prentiss patting Morgan on the shoulder as she went. That… that wasn’t even _slightly_ subtle!

“Uh,” said Morgan as the door swung shut.

Sensing that it was about to get awkward all over again, Reid pounced. “It wasn’t your fault.” Morgan’s eyes were skittering everywhere, settling on the empty lunch tray now half-covered by Prentiss’s crossword. “And don’t eat my jello, I know it was you.”

Morgan froze, looking torn between coming closer and running away. “It was,” he mumbled eventually. “And you weren’t eating it.”

“I was in an induced coma. That’s no excuse to eat a man’s jello.”

Patrick’s helium was starting to leak. He listed unhappily above the bed, smile firmly downturned now and the pen line making him seem even more depressed. Reid was kind of sad to see his decline. He’d been looking forward to bonding with the pink starfish. Morgan stared at it as he spoke, as though the declining balloon was easier to face than Reid himself. “Why did you even have jello in here then, anyway? And we’re not talking about this. Not while you’re…”

“Recovering? I _am_ recovering you know. I mean, I’m well outside the danger period. Do you want statistics? I have tons, and Patrick doesn’t appreciate them as much as you guys do. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but it wasn’t your fault. Don’t avoid me out of misplaced guilt. I can’t chase you, it’s not fair. I’m rambling. Please say something.”

Morgan slumped in the chair and seemed to consider it. A smile flickered across his features. “Alright, fine. It wasn’t my fault. And I’m not gonna stop eating your jello.”

Reid breathed again. “Only the green ones. The blue ones are my favourite.”

“I know.”

“We’re okay?” Reid had to ask. Patrick spun again. Morgan nodded. “Good. That’s good. Okay, quick, before they get back—what’s SpongeBob?”

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited October, 2017.**


End file.
